Crying Child (19 page)

I restored the ledger to the trunk and got to my feet. I was stiff after squatting on the floor for so long. It was later than I had realized. I went to the door. Mary’s door was open now, and I heard her moving around.

I went down the hall and looked in. My face must have mirrored the uncertainty I felt; she turned, and seeing me, laughed aloud.

“You look like a chipmunk peering nervously out of its hole to see whether the cat is around. Come on in. I don’t bite, I just bark a little. You ought to be used to that, Jo.”

She was dressed in a long hostess gown that
had a bright full skirt of flowered print and a low-cut peasant-style blouse. Sitting at the dressing table, she was working on her face.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re giving them the full treatment, aren’t you? I love that dress.”

She turned, lipstick brush in hand, and looked me over.

“I wish you’d let me get you that pants dress we saw.”

“What for? There’s nobody I want to impress.”

“And here I thought I was providing you with a nice eligible bachelor.”

“You mean Will Graham? Can you see me snowed in half the winter in that cabin of his, up to my elbows in cats?”

“I’m not suggesting that you marry him,” my sister said mildly.

She turned back to the mirror and I stood in the doorway watching her. It was the craziest feeling, carrying on this light chatter that had no bearing on what either of us was really thinking. But I knew, instinctively, that I had to play it this way. I couldn’t even mention the things Mary didn’t want to talk about. I don’t know whether she felt schizophrenic; I know I did. And I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it up.

Since Ran hadn’t returned, I assumed he had located Will and Anne. He had, and obviously they had all found plenty to talk about, because it
was late before they got back to the house. Mary and I were in the parlor. She wasn’t as cool as she pretended to be; I saw her color when the front door opened.

She put on a good show, however, as she greeted Anne and offered to show her to her room. They went up the stairs together. Ran followed, carrying Anne’s bags.

As soon as they were out of sight I turned to Will.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What did you tell her?”

“Yell a little louder, why don’t you?” Will said disagreeably. “Then Mary will be sure to hear you.”

He stalked into the parlor and I trailed him like an obedient puppy. When I tried again to interrogate him he shrugged irritably.

“Jo, let’s not have any whispering in corners, shall we? If anything will increase a patient’s delusions of persecution, that’s it.”

He was right, I guess, though I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Ran and Mary both came down shortly and it wasn’t long before Anne joined us. I had seen her glance at Mary’s long skirts, so I wasn’t surprised when she appeared in an equally glamorous outfit. It was pants again; the pants suit fad suited her tall slim
ness and I imagined she wore them often. This costume, consisting of tunic and trousers, was cocktail wear: it had glitter around the hem of the tunic and across the breast. The high Chinese collar was plain. The color, a luscious pale blue with the faintest touch of green, was very becoming to her blond elegance.

It was a strange evening. There were so many crosscurrents in that room that I could almost see them woven like ribbons from wall to wall, crossing and intersecting and tangling as conflicting motives met. It seemed to me that we were all concealing things from one another. The rest of us were trying to deceive Mary, and she certainly was not being candid with us. Will was thinking God knows what about me and Ran; as for Anne, I don’t think I’d have enjoyed hearing her private thoughts about any of us.

One thing surprised me, and that was Mary’s reaction to Anne. Several times in the past few days I had wondered if Mary hadn’t somehow found out the truth about Will’s “sister.” Now, watching the way the two women talked together, I realized that it didn’t matter. Mary had responded instantly to the other woman’s charm; they were getting along like old pals. Of course, I told myself, that was a psychiatrist’s business, winning a patient’s confidence. And yet it made me a little uneasy to watch them.

I thought at first that was why I felt uneasy. But gradually, as the windows darkened with twilight, I realized that my growing discomfort was unrelated to anything that was going on inside the room. It’s hard to describe that sensation; the nearest analogy I can come up with is the onset of seasickness or flu, the first stages, when you feel funny but you don’t know why. But this wasn’t physical discomfort, it was purely mental. It grew to a point where I couldn’t sit still any longer. I got up and went to the window.

It was the loveliest time of day, the soft gray time when the world looks relaxed and at peace but there is still enough light to see clearly. To the east the sky was deep indigo, with a single bright star shining like a beacon; in the west the sunset colors lingered. The light dulled the natural colors of objects but left their outlines clear. So I saw her plain, without any possibility of error.

She was standing on the edge of the paved terrace, not five yards away—closer than she had ever been. I still couldn’t make out her features. The hood of the cloak cast a pool of shadow where her face should have been. One thing I knew, if there had been the slightest lingering doubt—the figure was not that of Annie Marks.

The glass I was holding fell from my hand. I was numb with terror, and with a freezing cold that had nothing to do with the temperature of
the room. My lips were so stiff I could hardly move them.

“Look,” I croaked. “Oh, look. Will!”

It’s a sign of how far gone I was that I should call his name. He came; and he put his hand on my bare arm. His hand was warm, warm and living and human, and the touch spread through my chilled bones as brandy spreads.

“Look,” I chattered. “Look at her standing there. Will, make her go away, find out what she wants. It gets worse every time, every time she’s a little closer….”

Will’s finger tightened on my arm with such intensity that the bones felt as if they were grating together. I let out a yell of honest agony. Ran came rushing up, thoroughly confused by the whole thing, seeing only that Will was hurting me. He got us untangled and put his arm around me. My eyes were filled with tears of pain, but I twisted my head around so that I could look out the window.

Shadows on the lawn; but only normal shadows. She was gone.

“That hurt,” I said, weeping.

“I’m sorry,” Will began.

“It doesn’t matter. You saw it. I know you did.”

His face was a flat brown mask.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said.

Anne had come to join us at the window; standing to one side, as if dissociating herself from the fuss, she was lighting a cigarette. Her eyes met mine, and I knew she was wondering which of the sisters was sick in the head. Both, maybe.

“What was it, Jo?” Ran asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman! I told you this morning. The woman in the—”

And then, almost too late, I remembered Mary. I turned. From the depths of the big chair where she sat she watched me with affectionate concern. The mildness of that concern was a bad sign; ordinarily she’d have been fussing over me, demanding to know what had frightened me. I swallowed all the words that were boiling up in my throat, though the effort almost choked me. I hated to imagine the effect a macabre description like the one I was about to make would have on her.

“Just my imagination,” I said slowly. “Twilight is such a spooky time of night.”

I don’t suppose anyone believed me. Ran didn’t; I could tell by his face that he realized what I was talking about. He looked terrified. And in his fright and concern for Mary he spoke with brutal directness.

“It’s not the twilight. It’s this damned house. We’re getting out of here. Mary, Jo—we’ll leave Monday, go back to town. Maybe later on we can
go abroad for a few months. It’s the wrong time of year for Switzerland, but in June—”

I tried to stop him, but it was too late. Mary came up out of her chair as if propelled by a spring.

“Go away from here?”

She looked as if she were going to faint. Ran went to her, his arms outstretched, but she put him off with a convulsive movement of her hands.

“I won’t go, Ran. I won’t leave. I like it here. I feel better here. If I go I’ll be ill. Really ill.”

It was a threat, and Ran knew it. His arms dropped heavily. He stared at Mary with naked fear in his eyes.

Her face softened a little at the sight of his distress. She knew she had won; she could afford some compassion.

“You don’t understand, Ran,” she said pleadingly; it was as if the two of them were alone in the room. “You must bear, or lose; there is no other way. Just give me a little more time.”

“Mary,” I said hoarsely.

Mary looked at me.

“No, Jo,” she said. “I can’t talk now. I have too much to do. Now why don’t you sit down and relax? I must—I must speak to Mrs. Willard about something.”

She left the room. After a moment Ran followed.

“What was that all about?” Will demanded.

“Blackmail,” Anne said coolly. She put out her cigarette. “She’s threatening to break down completely if he forces her to leave.”

“Oh, that, sure. But what did she mean when she said—”

Ran reentered the room. Will glanced inquiringly at him and he nodded wearily.

“She’s with Mrs. Willard, I just wanted to be sure. You ought to hear her, chatting about hors d’oeuvres.” He looked at me. “Jed was right, wasn’t he? He warned you she wouldn’t leave.”

“I believe I also mentioned that possibility,” Anne said waspishly. She wasn’t so pretty or so charming when her professional pride was challenged. “If you hadn’t been so abrupt, Mr. Fraser—”

Ran looked like a whipped dog, and I said angrily,

“It wouldn’t have made any difference. We knew it probably wouldn’t work, but we had to try it. Sure Jed was right; he always is.”

“Jed? Who is this Jed you all keep quoting?”

“Somebody call me?”

There he was in the doorway. He must have been there for some time waiting for a chance to interrupt. As Will had said, he had a funny sense of humor. I suspected he was enjoying the look on Anne’s face as she compared his lanky overalled
form with the expert she had visualized from our respectful comments. She probably expected another psychiatrist.

Ran, who was so totally without snobbery that he never sensed it in other people; introduced the two of them to one another. Jed nodded politely.

“Did you hear what happened?” Ran asked.

“I gather Mary refused to leave the house.”

“She said something odd,” Will said. “What was all that about ‘You must bear or lose’?”

By that time I shouldn’t have been surprised at the breadth of Jed’s acquaintance with the classics; but I really didn’t expect anyone else to recognize that obscure quotation. He did; I could tell by his face. His eyes moved inquiringly from one bewildered face to another, and stopped when they came to me.

“You know it too,” he said. “You and Mary must have read the same books.”

“There were books all over the house,” I said. “In every room, even in the hall. Memory is a funny thing. I couldn’t remember my mother’s face without the pictures; but I can close my eyes, and see that set of Kipling. It was in a bookcase in the dining room. Brown cloth bindings stamped in gold. ‘The Just-So Stories’ and ‘The Jungle Books’ were the first, and then ‘Puck of Pook’s Hill.’ From the time I was three or four, somebody read to me every night. They took
turns—Mother and Dad and Mary. After I learned to read I was insatiable. I tried everything, from Dad’s old Hardy Boy books to Shakespeare. A lot of it I didn’t understand. But nobody controlled my reading; they explained when I asked questions, and suggested books I might enjoy, but they never…”

I stopped, realizing that they were all staring at me. Memoryis a funny thing. It can rise up, alive and hurting, after years of indifference.

“So,” I said. “That’s why I know the story. It isn’t one of his best-known tales. And nobody reads Kipling these days, do they? He’s too sentimental for modern tastes. This is a particularly sentimental story.”

“Wait a minute,” Will said. “I knew it was familiar. Sure, it’s the story about the blind woman who keeps her house open, furnished with fires and toys—for the ghost children. She can hear them; but the only ones who can see them are the bereaved parents.”